


Always A Lady

by DixieDale



Category: The Girl from U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:39:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: There were many things you could say about April Dancer - that she was lovely, intelligent, talented.  Or that she was perhaps overly fond of the new mod fashions.  Some would have said she was daring and brave to become the first Section II agent working for Alexander Waverly; others would have sniffed and called her presumptuous for even thinking of such a thing.  But one thing everyone agreed on, April Dancer was always a lady.





	Always A Lady

April Dancer looked at herself in the cracked mirror, took stock of her bruises and assorted aches and pains, her less than pristine appearance, and really felt like uttering a few heartfelt curses, but bit her tongue. "Always a lady," she reminded herself, wiping her grimy face and hands on the tail of her shirt, and then the humor of it got to her. 

She sat down on the swaying daybed in the tiny posada she had just ducked in to, and reviewed the past several days. She had to laugh, just a little, although it was probably no laughing matter, her having just slipped through the grasping fingers of Thrush. Still, it had been such a whirlwind of contrasts that it really was laughable, though perhaps her giddiness was partly contributed to by that lovely little cocktail of drugs her captor had included in that knock-out mist she'd encountered at the flower shop earlier.

***  
First there had been the meeting in Mr. Waverly's office with the head man himself, along with Mark and Napoleon and Illya, as well as Jeff Carmody from European Liaison, based out of Geneva. 

She'd been the last to arrive, but certainly on time, and had received a variety of appraising looks. She'd made sure to keep a professional look on her face, didn't have a smudge on her nose, and her hair was brushed to a shining fall, so it was probably her clothes. Sigh. Well, 'mod' just wasn't a style that everyone liked, and the fuscia and canary combination, with just a dash of black, was perhaps a bit much for those with more conservative tastes. 

There had been the look of patient resignation from Waverly, the one of rank disapproval from Carmody. Napoleon had given an approving smile (though she hadn't been sure it was a real one; it might just be habit when faced with an attractive woman obviously trying to appear attractive), Illya a non-judgmental nod. Mark had flashed her an approving smile, though burying it quickly under a serious demeanor. 

She'd ignored all the unspoken fashion comments, even the seemingly-favorable ones, had given her most professional smile and nod to each man as she took her seat. And even when Jeff Carmody had bordered on the insulting in questioning her value on this (or perhaps on ANY) assignment, she had remained a lady. {"Always a lady, April, remember."}

***  
Alexander Waverly had groaned as each of his four agents walked through the door, although only on the inside, of course. It would hardly have been dignified otherwise. Still, HE had reservations about each of them, and he could feel Carmody's disapproval, though for quite different reasons most likely.

Still, it took a masterful effort to control his emotions. Oh, he thoroughly approved of Kuryakin's cool detachment, though not his attire or his slightly disheveled general appearance. {"Perhaps a slight increase in his salary so he can afford something not so obviously off the rack? And another directive regarding a more professional haircut is obviously in order."}. 

Solo's usual dapper appearance met with his grudging approval - grudging since he knew the suit would be very expensive to replace when it got destroyed, which was unfortunately inevitable - but the man's barely subdued lascivious leer in Miss Dancer's direction was quite inappropriate and most offputting, though to her credit, the young woman didn't seem to take any notice.

And her partner, Mark Slate? That young man! Was he ever going to act and dress like a professional?? Where on earth did he get those suits of his? Certainly not at the same tailor Mr. Solo frequented. The cut was entirely wrong, with that narrow in-curve to the waist, and the lapels were totally out of proportion to what a proper suit should bear, and the collar on his shirt was, well, the less said about that, or the color, the better. Most offputting! AND the man was even giving the impression that he APPROVED of that totally inappropriate outfit his partner was wearing! 

Sometimes he just had to wonder about that young man, in a variety of ways, including whether he himself had made a very big mistake in teaming him with Miss Dancer, the first female Section II agent Waverly had working for him. Perhaps someone older, more conventional would have been better after all to partner the fledgling female agent, though it hadn't seemed so at the time. He'd thought someone younger, someone open and not particularly judgemental, someone without a chip on his shoulder regarding working with someone a bit different, that had seemed best, but now he just wasn't sure it had been a good idea. 

Well, it had worked when Slate had been paired with Chin Lee from Hong Kong for those five months before Lee had formed a permanent partnership with Jerry Upshaw, and again with Mokoru Kalatta before Kalatta decided field work just wasn't for him and switched to Research. That had all seemed quite promising, a track record of good, sensible, short-lived partnerships; should be just the thing needed.

Waverly had hoped for a good, if slightly superficial, working relationship between Slate and his new agent, one where Miss Dancer would have some protection, be allowed to grow and learn, and not be overwhelmed by her partner, but now it would appear the two were meshing far too well for his peace of mind. He had certainly never intended for this to be a long-lasting partnership.

Lisa Rogers had suggested that, right from the beginning, that perhaps someone else would be a better choice, but he'd thought the match was a good one, at least for a start. After all, teaming an impressionable young woman with any man was risky, and Waverly had worked his way through the list of available agents carefully, discarding one after the other as some major flaw became apparent. Most particularly, the flaw of being perhaps too dashing, too bold and daring, too . . . 

Well, certainly Napoleon Solo had been eliminated at first thought; even if he HADN'T been partnered so successfully with Illya Kuryakin, THAT was just a disaster waiting to happen. Solo would have had her bedded and dreamy-eyed before their first assignment had even begun! His initial tentative thought of moving Kuryakin to work with Slate and putting Miss Dancer with Solo was discarded within seconds of the thought.

He tried not to look directly at Miss Dancer after that first shocking impression. {"Drat the girl! Can't she wear something more . . . Something less . . . Drat!!"}

Taking one more annoyed sideways glance, he realized she looked like an exotic bird, bright-eyed and graceful, feathers just begging to be stroked. He felt that groan coming on again, and resolutely turned his mind back to the serious matter at hand. He ignored the steely-eyed look Lisa Rogers was giving him; his secretary knew him far too well.

Of course Jeff Carmody was looking like a thundercloud. Carmody had given his opinion the last time Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate had worked in his territory. 

"The Russian wasn't bad enough? Kindergarteners now, Alexander? Do spare me your experiments! I don't have enough men for babysitting duty!" 

Of course, Waverly admitted (though Carmody never had) the two HAD done the job, most adequately, other than a couple of small mishaps, and the Head of UNCLE New York was sure those could both be left squarely at Slate's doorstep. That young man! He was going to have to consider having Accounting dock his paycheck for breakage, just as he'd started doing with Solo and his wardrobe damages. 

Carmody seethed, now faced with the two he'd been so tight-jawed with at their last meeting, remembering how they'd calmly laid the evidence before him that one of his own trusted staff was a Thrush mole. He'd been so sure they were wrong when they stood in front of his desk, so indignant at their impudence. 

Well, of course he HAD said a few perhaps unwarranted things in the heat of his anger, considering they had been proved right about Witherspoon, but still, he didn't think the two of them were anyone to be bringing into THIS matter! And for heaven's sake, where DID that young woman think she was going, a fashion runway on Carnaby Street?? With her so-called partner right beside her, of course, from the looks of it.

No, this needed experienced professionals. While he thought Napoleon Solo would fit the bill quite well, Carmody wasn't any too sure about that Russian the senior agent had working with him, and the two younger agents? No. He would just have to find a way around that, maybe cause them to lose their demeanor enough, perhaps become flustered enough that Waverly would see reason.

Somehow, despite his best efforts, neither of the younger agents, nor the Russian, responded to his provocations, kept cool heads throughout the briefing, and he'd ended up having to just accept things as they were outlined. He'd get his chance later, perhaps, when they bolluxed it all up. 

Well, at least Waverly had agreed that Solo and Kuryakin would handle the most important part of the job, ferreting out, discovering the truth about the possible double-agent in Geneva. Yes, Slate and Dancer had managed something similar before, but he had no confidence that had been anything but a fluke, certainly not enough to trust them with this. 

No, if Waverly felt they HAD to be involved, let those two wander around Biscay trying to find a connection between the governor of that area and Thrush, a connection between the regal Madame Bleumoire and that organization as well. They just might stumble upon something, and even if they didn't, at least they'd not interfere with the more urgent matter.

****  
April touched the grimy shirt and wrinkled her nose, thinking of that crisp, clean mod outfit. SHE'D liked it, no matter what Waverly had thought of it. Of course, the outfit she had worn to the governor's reception would have been much more to Waverly's liking, to be sure, perhaps even to Jeff Carmody's. Full length in moire silk, showing just enough but not too much, fitted to accent her figure but not blatantly, and all in the same black that most of the other women were wearing. 

She had to admit it was very flattering on her, but still, she felt like a black rose in a bouquet of very similar black roses. Except for her hair, of course; she was the only redhead in the bunch, blonde seeming to be the hair-color du jour for the embassy crowd this year. Perhaps it was that that brought the governor's attache to her side, whispering in her ear that the governor himself would appreciate a private audience. 

Mark had whispered into the tiny communication device tucked just above her ear, under that elegant uptwist, "be careful, April. The governor has a bit of a reputation, and we aren't sure where he stands in this situation. And, April, remember . . ." his voice trailed off, though she could hear the ever so familiar unspoken words 'always a lady', enough she said them right along with him in her head and smiled a secret smile.

She'd nodded congenially to a rather frosty older woman in passing, letting Mark know she'd heard him. The indignant sniff the other woman had given went unnoticed as April gracefully made her way on the attache's arm out of the ballroom to the library down the hall.

Well, Mark had been right, on both counts. The governor had been eager to make her acquaintance; had been eager for more than that, apparently. There was only the quick "look out, luv. Here come the fireworks!" as a faint warning in her ear. How Mark had managed to tip off the governor's mistress AND his wife, if it indeed had been him and not just serendipity, she was going to ask when they had time for a good story over a good dinner and drinks; for now she was only glad he had, since in the ensuing screeching and yelling and spitting and caterwauling April had been able to make a speedy exit. Not only that, but in his initial endeavors to impress her, the governor had thoroughly implicated himself in the efforts of Thrush to take over the politics of this region, that being the information she'd been there to discover.

She'd made it back to the hotel, dress and hairdo intact, smile on her face. "And I was a lady all the way through, Mark, though I can hardly say the same for the OTHER two women. It seems they just weren't too terribly pleased with the governor."

"Likely not, luv," Mark said, sprawled across her bed in his basic jewel-thief black, head propped up on one hand. "They might be reconciled to the existence of each other, but it seems neither are too pleased with his other extracurricular activities, especially when it's right under their ever-so-elegant noses. His wife, she holds the money, oodles of it, it seems, and the primary estates, along with being the mother of his sons, who utterly adore their mum and are just waiting for a chance to take down the old man - young wolf versus old wolf, you know. His mistress, she upholds his political influence through various means, including a large horde of blackmail material involving some very important personages; plus she has a reputation for being able to . . . Well, let's just say she has certain talents most desirable to a gentlemen of the governor's rather advanced age, where he might need a little extra incentive." 

That grin was utterly wicked, and April was about to tease him for more details when the communicator sounded, directing them on to a new area of investigation.

***  
Her attire during the next stage was neither mod nor elegant, but at least the well-cut tan trousers and shirt and matching jacket with low shoes were practical for the long hours on the cobblestones, searching out one lead after the other. Practical, but certainly different than the rather shapeless dresses or skirt and blouse outfits she had kept encountering on the other women she met. 

In fact, at first she'd taken the stunned look on the shopkeeper's face in that little flower shop as a criticism of her outfit; there had been a few others who didn't appreciate the sight of a female in trousers in this rather conservative place. 

But it turned out her face had finally started making the rounds of the lower-level Thrush minions and this one, the shop owner, happened to have a penchant for shapely attractive redheads. After drooling over her photograph, lusting over it, doing everything but sleeping with it under his pillow, (and he might even have been doing that!), it was hardly any surprise he'd recognized her at about the same time that little bell over the door had finished its tinkling. 

The knock-out mist concealed in that little bouquet he'd smilingly handed her with such a florish had sent her reeling to the floor. 

She was at least spared the sight of him hovering over her, eyes shining, mouth damp with excitement, hands reaching out for her. The items he'd purchased at such expense when he'd first become enamoured with her photograph were just waiting, spread out on the bed in his spare bedroom. Waiting, as they were every time he visited that room, to feast his eyes, to become lost in his fantasies. Only now, it would no longer be a fantasy but sweet reality. And while it might not last long, considering his employers at Thrush weren't particularly forebearing and he could hardly neglect to report her appearance and subsequent capture, in the meantime he was determined to create enough memories to last him a lifetime.

It took him awhile to properly set the scene, but then, to his dismay, his small shop saw a flurry of business, as evidenced by that tinkling bell from down below. He'd hurried down to wait on the wedding arranger, then on the erring husband looking for flowers to distract his wife from the lipstick on his collar, and finally the party arguing at tiresome length over appropriate funeral flowers for a rich but loathed relative. 

He'd finally gotten rid of everyone, had started to put up the Closed sign and lock the door when two men walked through the door. It was then he knew that he really should have put that Closed sign out as soon as the delectable Miss April Dancer had walked through the door. But how could he have known that other Thrush operatives would have seen her walk in and reported it to Headquarters. Just his luck!

Waking up in a small rather shabby bedroom, April realized she didn't have to worry about the drab trousers and shirt and jacket, except to wonder where they'd disappeared to. Now she was wearing a rather exotic concoction of black silk and lace, along with lacy red garters, something she decided looked as if it had perhaps played a starring role in a French film of the fifties, one of those circulated in only certain select crowds, one where wives were NOT included. 

Putting aside the question of just when and how her clothes had been switched, she looked around carefully, noting there were no windows and the unlocked door led only to a tiny lavatory. The locked door presumably led to elsewhere in the building, but before she could see what was available to pick the lock, the door opened and a rather disgruntled shopkeeper appeared with two other men. He was busy explaining that of course he was intending to report her presence, her capture; he just hadn't gotten around to it yet. 

"The shop has been busy, you see. And to close at this time of day would have drawn unwanted attention." 

Seemingly the other two men weren't impressed with his explanation, or, for that matter, the cleverly crafted bit of whimsy she was wearing.

"Hurry, get her clothes! They want her at Headquarters. No, don't complain to us; you should have taken your pleasure when you first caught her, if you were inclined, not made such a big deal out of it," the man with the moustache gruffly informed him, casting a disinterested eye over April. The other one, the one with the wet mouth and smirk, his eye wasn't so disinterested, and his stroking of the black silk wasn't reassuring. 

"Claude, stop fingering the merchandise and find her clothes! And be careful! From what I hear, she's Section II and earned her spot there!"

Claude had a sulk on his face now, replacing the smirk, but April didn't think it was a vast improvement. She much preferred the look of total shock when Mark eased into the room behind them, coughed apologetically while informing them, "yes, she is, and yes, she has," giving her a wry grin while he used his gun loaded with sleep darts to put all three out of commission. 

Leaning back against the door, her partner had taken in the erotic confection she was wearing and shook his head in mock dismay. 

"Don't know the Old Man will be all approving of that one, you know. Oh, it has a lot in common with your dress at the Governor's Mansion - fits you well enough, good quality, basic black and all, but still, more outre than Waverly would go for. Now Napoleon? He'd be just as pleased with either; imagine Illya would be too, though he's not one to show it so easily."

She couldn't resist teasing him just a little as she made a hurried and thankfully successful search for her own clothes. 

"And you, partner mine? Do you approve?" 

He didn't answer and she shot him a puzzled glance; he was usually quick in responding to her teasing, just as she was to his.

Now he was standing there with an odd look, as if he was having to think about it. "Not sure. Suits you in some ways, maybe, but not in others." 

That thoughtful look worried her a little. She and Mark had a perfectly calibrated relationship and she certainly didn't want any black lace negligee, if you wanted to give that garment such a benign description, to throw it off balance. 

Then his face cleared and that cheeky smile returned.

"It's the wrong season; that's what's wrong about it! Here it is just past Christmas, and you look like you came out of a naughty costume shop got up special for Halloween. I'd think maybe he was going for Valentine's Day, but there's nothing sweetly romantic about THAT! Reminds me of the first blue film I ever saw, you know, something French. All black lace and cigarette holders a foot long and a highly improbable script, lusty lady vampires, a monk with rather odd ideas of amusement, and a wandering group of young university blokes and a murky old castle, if I remember it right. Didn't make much sense, of course, not that there were too many paying attention to the plot, not with everything else going on. And even you have to admit, April, it's hardly lady-like, especially the red garters. I mean, it's not like you're wearing stockings where you'd need garters. Remember . . ."

And as she disappeared behind the dressing screen to change, she recited it with him, laughing into his teasing blue eyes, "always a lady, April, always a lady." No, she didn't have to worry about a confection of black lace and silk affecting the partnership.

Reappearing wearing the much less revealing tan trouser outfit, she tossed the black lace and red garters onto the bed, and they left the other three still unconscious. April declined Mark's offer to dress the shopkeeper, or maybe one of the others in the black filmy offering, and pose all of them skillfully on the bed, "can see if there's a camera about; maybe get a few nice candid snaps? See if I can't find some imaginative use for those garters?", but it was an amusing thought. 

As for Mark, though he'd never tell HER, he was using that ludicrous image to drive the one of his partner in all that black lace out of his stubborn mind. No, he wasn't about to go upsetting the balance they'd worked so hard to get in place. {"Just keep repeating to yourself, Mark old boy - 'she's my partner, she's my partner, she's my partner!' Besides, that's not really her style; she's much more attractive in something that lets her shine on her own behalf, not that sort of theatrical nonsense. Those garters WERE a nice touch, though."}

And, yes, he'd taken a good look at her eyes when he'd first arrived, enough to know she was truly alright. He'd seen her when she wasn't, knew the difference. 

Well, if she hadn't been, he'd have found some excuse for paying another little visit to those three, and them wearing that black bit of fluffery would have been the least of their worries. Not that April ever needed to know anything about that, just like she didn't need to know about that other little incident. 

Just like Waverly didn't need to have every little detail in those reports of his. HE certainly wasn't going to mention that black lace and red garters ensemble, not for Waverly to linger over the description, and yes, he could read the Old Man's mind pretty well, maybe more than their superior could himself. He was sure he could convince April that there was no need for being overly detailed. She was usually quite reasonable about things, after all. No, mum's the word, as they say.

***  
They'd split up after they left the flower shop, realizing there were still two distinct avenues for pursuit of the information they were after, and he went his way, she went hers. In retrospect, April only hoped his way had been a little bit clearer than hers. 

She also hoped he hadn't felt obliged to head back to that little flower shop. While she didn't know for sure, she just had a feeling about things sometimes. Well, she knew how she'd reacted a time or two, when Mark had been caught on the rough side of things; that little 'mishap' of her aim being slightly off with Harry Priestly, for one. Seems even a sleep dart can prove fatal if it hits the jugular. 

Of course, she didn't intend for him to know any of that, at least just how little the term 'mishap' might apply, and she'd glossed over (to say the least) any of that in the reports, but it did give her a different perspective on what might be going through her partner's mind.

From there things had gone decidedly downhill for her, at least in the sartorial department. Between that wild ride on a bicycle down a dust-clad road, the climb up into the cliffs to get close to Madame Bleumoire's chateau, not to mention the fast tumble down a goodly portion of it in her haste to get away from the chateau's first line of defense, an unruly ram and a flock of belligerant geese, she had come out rather the worse for wear. 

Of course, spotting Victor Gervais leaving the chateau had been a plus; the main question here was whether the dapper Thrush operative was in cahoots with Madame, she of the oh-so-innocent eyes and oh-so-vicious tendencies. The disgruntled look on the man's face when he left didn't point to a particularly WARM relationship, but at least they'd met, and that was all April needed to know for the moment. 

She'd toyed with the idea of pretending to be a lost tourist, flagging down his car, but if the florist knew her face, surely Gervais would as well. Mark would hardly approve of her waltzing back into Thrush hands for the second time in one day. So she'd made her way down through the shadows on either side of the winding road, til she caught a lift with a passing farmer and his mule-drawn wagon. The small village hadn't offered much in the way of hospitality, and considering the way she knew she looked, she hesitated about approaching anyone. That tiny posada on a side street had proved a welcoming shelter, and she was quite grateful for it.

***  
Now, looking down at her filthy trousers and shirt, stained with water, and streaks of dirt, and traces of blood from various scratches, and probably best undisclosed other additions, noting her hair had fared little better, she repeated those words to herself. {"Always a lady, April."}. 

This time, though, she had to suppress a slightly disoriented giggle. Yes, a lady; well, looking at her, who could doubt it??! Certainly not the proprietress of this little posada; bless her, the old woman hadn't even blinked, had been amazingly sympathetic to April's story of an accident out in the countryside. When April had asked about where she could purchase a change of clothes, the woman had even offered some clean clothing to change into, though apologizing that it wasn't new. 

"For there are no shops open at this time of day. And you will need something to wear while you go to the shops later, yes?" No, those clothes she had on probably were NOT salvageable.

She used the tiny sink to wash away the accumulated grime, brushed as much as she could from her hair, and winced at putting on the filthy clothes. Still, she had no choice there, not til the old woman's granddaughter reappeared with the clothes she'd dashed off to find. To say she was grateful when Maria showed up with not only a worn but clean skirt and blouse, but also a light cotton wrap, that would have been an understatement. 

She used the communicator to reach Mark, and once reassured that he was still following up leads and letting him know her whereabouts, she stretched out on the daybed, felt her body go lax, no longer able to fight the fatigue and the residual drug in her system, and let her mind drift.

***  
While her mother, a mother she'd had for far too few years, had encouraged individuality and expression of her true feelings, she'd been pretty much the only one. Well, other than Cousin Caeide and her family, of course. No, April had been told she should be a lady, always a lady. 

She'd heard that from her father and nannies, her teachers, her minister and Sunday School leaders; from the mavens of society; eventually even from her partner at UNCLE, Mark Slate. 

Of course, with Mark, it was a little different. He MEANT it differently, although that first remonstration from him had been rather a disappointment. She'd thought better of him, been a little bit hurt to hear that familiar warning from him. It hadn't taken more than that wry grin, his eyes twinkling at her, before she'd caught on, though, that he was poking fun at the words, the ORDER he'd heard her father give her about remembering who she was. 

That first meeting between the august Mr. Dancer and Mark Slate had NOT gone well. The short visit over tea had gone downhill quickly. 

No, her father had NOT been pleased about her new job as an agent for UNCLE. He thought it was a mad whim, something she'd get over in just a few weeks if not sooner, hopefully before she had time to further sully the family name. Though how he would think she would have put herself through all the effort in the training for the job, if she wasn't serious about it, was anyone's guess.

And however much displeased he'd been about the job in the first place, the introduction of Mark Slate, her new partner, had put spades to his displeasure. Whether it was the Carnaby Street attire, or that cheeky grin, or the robust handshake, who knows. The less than upper class vocabulary and accent, though not of the slums or the gutter, had obviously not impressed. 

He'd barely acknowledged Mark after that first introduction, focusing all his attention, his remarks, his instructions on his daughter. Proper social manners weren't to be wasted on the hoi polloi, after all; bad enough he was having to sit at the same tea table with the man! Obviously April had been greatly at fault for even thinking of inviting him!

Just as obviously, the very idea of his daughter being partnered with such a man was highly offensive to the older man. He couldn't imagine what those people over at The U.N.C.L.E. were thinking! 

There was no question April's father expected strict obedience either; the pursed mouth, the steely glare, the stiff posture all showed that quite clearly. 

"You are a Dancer, and the women of my family are always ladies. You were raised to be a lady, April. Never forget that. Always a lady." 

His tone had been less than optimistic, his face showing his obvious doubt that she'd be able to live up to that high standard any better now than she had when she'd come in at six or seven with her knees scraped and nose running and muddy from head to toe from a tumble off her pony.

April took note that it was 'my family', not 'our family'. Perhaps that should have insulted her, but actually she had to agree with his outlook. She hadn't considered it 'her family' in a great many years, perhaps not since the year after her mother died. There weren't many of the Dancer family left, but none of them approved of her any more than her father did, just as none of them had approved of her mother. In their minds, she obviously just wasn't 'Dancer quality'.

She had gradually come to think of it as rather a compliment, just as she did the warm approval and acceptance she'd found with her mother's far distant cousin Caeide O'Donnell and HER family. After all, if she had a choice of which family to belong to, there was just no question. And it still made her laugh, that comment from her cousin, "and there's been more than one woman in our family who'd have kicked someone in the teeth for calling them a lady; I know our great grandmother used to call it a dire insult, and as for my sisters? Aiii!"

Actually, she found Mark's take on the matter a great inspiration. And she followed his lead, HIS interpretation of that phrase, far more than the others who'd also urged her with the same words before. To quote one early bit of teasing advice, "even if you've just had to kick some bloke in the jewels and pound him upside his head and dump him in a cesspit, there's no reason to be COARSE about it, April luv. Always a lady, remember, always a lady." 

Somehow, she thought her Cousin Caeide would approve of Mark's take on the matter much more than Franklin Mercer Dancer's; she was equally sure her mother would have.

***  
Flirting, though, that was one area where she really DID try to be a lady. Well, at least when she wasn't required to be elsewise to get a job done; after all, Mark had taught her how to play a Liverpool trull to perfection, along with a few other less-ladylike roles, and they occasionally proved most useful. 

Of course, Survival School had taught her quite a bit as well, though in a rather stiff 'I'd prefer we didn't have women here in the first place, but since we do, and since it might be useful to have you act less than . . . , well . . .' 

Yes, well, Cutter WAS rather old school; he'd been forced to accept female trainees, but somehow April was the first to ever pass with high enough marks to be considered for Section 2. 

She wasn't all that surprised. She probably WAS the first one sly or devious enough to foil all the attempts to sabotage her performance, up to and including tapping into the computer far enough to have that last desperate attempt to twiddle her final scores down a few crucial points fail miserably. 

There was something about the glare on Cutter's face that next day, a glare aimed particularly at her, that made her wonder how much he knew, and whether he was furious at someone tampering with HIS school or with HER for succeeding in spite of all the attempts. 

The smile she'd given him was one Cousin Caiede had shown her during that summer she'd stayed with Caeide and her two men, Peter Newkirk and Andrew Carter, and their family - the smile Caeide said her next youngest sister Meghada had perfected. 

"Meghada calls it her 'aint I just a bloody 'me arse don't stink' elegant toff, and aint you just so lucky O'im gracing you with me fuckin presence??!' smile. I've always thought it quite effective." 

April had too, and had taken great amusement in copying it, now gracing Cutter with a blinding rendition that seemed to rather take him aback.

But flirting? Truly, she never had been all that tempted by the game, if you wanted to call it that. Another 'flaw' her cousin said ran in the family. 

"Oh, most of us can, of course," Caeide had assured her, "if the situation calls for it. But I don't know of any of us who actually enjoy it, outside of perhaps enacting a fantasy or two or three. I think it boils down to a lack of patience. I mean, if we like someone enough to want to draw their attention, we tend to have enough respect for them not to be coy. And if we DON'T like someone enough for that, then why are we wasting our time with them in the first place? Unless it's on a job, of course; there's many a disagreeable task undertaken on a job. All the more reason for not letting any of that carry over to your personal life, to my way of thinking."

April had seen a wonderful example of that when Peter and Andrew had come in from some task and sat down to tea with the women. Caeide, having given April a knowing wink, had laid on the charm, gently flirting with first one, then the other, then increasing the level, all according to the social dictates of the art April had seen in use in her OTHER sphere. Actually, Caeide was really quite good at it.

Finally, Peter had frowned, looked over at an obviously bewildered Andrew, set down his tea cup and bluntly asked, "Caeide-luv, you feeling alright? Not like you to be so dithery!" 

Caeide had looked at April with a 'see what I mean?' glance and April had giggled. Later she'd asked, "but if you WERE interested in a little, well, 'romance' with them, what I've heard is called a little 'afternoon delight', what would you have done to let them know what you were thinking, if not by flirting?"

It took the sixteen year old April several minutes to clear her streaming eyes after laughing so hard she'd choked. Well, Caeide's slow knowing smile, along with her calm "I'd just have leaned over and whispered in their ear, something like this . . ." was just so pricelessly Caeide. 

"And they wouldn't have been offended, shocked?" she'd asked after she recovered from hearing that totally blunt trio of suggestions.

"Shocked? They'd have probably fallen over each other in racing up the stairs." 

That smile became very smug, very knowing, "in fact, that happened only last month, wiped out the stair baskets past repairing they did before they made it to the bedroom. Ah, well, quite worth the cost of replacing them, as I recall." Ah, yes. Smug was ONE of the words April thought that smile conveyed.

***  
But not everyone thought along those lines, of course.

Take Mark for an example; he enjoyed flirting. He had it down to a science (perhaps more of an art), could flirt with almost anyone at any time, at least when the guns weren't blasting. He was a lot like Napoleon Solo in that regard. Where he differed from Napoleon Solo, well, at least one way, was in the aftermath of the flirting. To him, the flirting was a standalone activity, not necessarily leading to anything else, and most of the time he preferred it that way, being cautious of the various complications that could arise. 

Yes, VERY different than Agent Solo, who, from what April could discern, was more like an alcoholic who couldn't take one drink, but had to press forward and would end up finishing everything offered, and probably end up with a massive hangover along with.

April often watched her partner while he was engaged in flirting, sometimes in amusement, sometimes in utter bemusement at his wide interpretation of the art. Female, male, six to ninety, he just could turn on the charm whenever he liked. Often she watched with a serious attention so that she could better her own performance in that arena, since it rarely occurred to her to be so broad in her endeavors. 

She also watched to be able to train herself to see when he was 'performing' the art, and when he actually was flirting for real. That had taken far more time than you would have thought, for her to be able to reliably spot the difference. She'd initially felt better when Mark had confided that sometimes he wasn't quite sure himself, then had stared at him in confused disbelief. At the sight of that wry grin of his, she still hadn't known whether he was serious or not. Sometimes she got the impression that her partner was far more complicated than he appeared on the surface.

Still she watched and she practiced, because for April, flirting was a job skill she needed to be in total command of, and one she had pretty much eschewed before deciding to become an UNCLE agent. It was still a skill she rarely tried to employ in any other venue, remembering her cousin's advice. 

At this point in her life, her focus was on her career, and she truly didn't want any personal interactions interferring with that. She was very aware of her position as the first female agent for Waverly's area, and what would be said if she abandoned her position as an agent for the UNCLE for a relationship, especially this early on, so to her, a relationship was to be strongly avoided. And, quite frankly, that's where flirting (and anything flirting might lead to) just might hypothetically end up, and so she avoided that on a personal level, and she was cautious of it on the business level as well. 

Oh, not about engaging in it for the roles she had to play; that she was willing to do. No, it was the little side encounters while ON a job that she was highly distrustful of, and she just had a hard time understanding how the male agents could allow themselves that indulgence.

To her mind, flirting was just too dangerous a sport in the line of work they were in. She often watched Napoleon Solo and his seeming-compulsion in a combination of admiration for the skill he exhibited and irritation of how he allowed it to distract him from the job they had to do. She'd been all too ruefully aware of her early experience with Joey Celeste, how that not-quite-flirting but still SOMETHING unexpected, had led her to coming so close to compromising the assignment. Of course, that emotional response had probably saved both their lives with Little John Doe, but still . . .

Occasionally, though, she'd watch her partner engage in the activity of flirting with a sincere concern that Mark was going to get himself into trouble he wasn't going to be able to get himself out of, even with her help. Though she was, of course, relieved that she'd never seen Mark totally lose himself in the venture, in the way Napoleon Solo seemed to be able to do, not to the point of forgetting the job at hand or the others involved in that job. 

Oh, he'd come close, perhaps, a time or two, but never totally, or at least she didn't believe so, (although she still had her suspicions about Theodora O'Hare, and if he HAD crossed that line, why with her??!), so she'd not had to experience first-hand the disappointment (at the least!) that Illya Kuryakin must have felt, more than once, of being caught on the wrong end of a weapon or a fist due to a partner's flirting games and anything else that followed. 

And while Illya and Mark, whether from male solidarity or whatever, seemed reluctant to brace Napoleon on the issue, at least not too much, not in front of her anyway, when that distraction led to delay or disruption, or even worse, injury to those working with him, she had no such compunctions, not once she'd gotten over her initial awe of the impressive senior agent. 

Oh, she was a lady about it, mostly, abiding by Mark's frequent sly gentle remonstration (delivered with an equally sly smile) of "remember, always a lady, April, always a lady." One of the many times he'd reminded her, she'd just kicked a villain where it would hurt most, but considering the man's prior activities she thought herself quite well justified. It turned out it wasn't the kick that Mark was chiding her about, but the rather coarse directive she'd delivered along with the kick. So, she learned to modify her first impulse in many cases. Like the one that night in Lisbon.

***  
She'd been off on another part of the job, tailing that messenger; Mark and Illya were to mingle a bit with the crowd, then locate that safe and abscond with the files; Napoleon was to arrive in plenty of time to stand guard and warn them of any approaching nasties. 

By the time she got back, it was all supposed to be over and done with, the three ready to head back to the safehouse. Instead, she'd been just in time to assist Napoleon in rescuing the other two men from a band of Thrush guards and that Thrush operative with a penchant for unpleasant ways of obtaining information.

The sight of Mark with his bloodied shirt and torn flesh, those new bruises, of Illya in scarcely better shape, and Napoleon, two hours and more late for the rendezvous, far too late to provide the backup he'd been supposed to deliver, due to being distracted by a lovely female Thrush operative, standing there as neat and tidy as if he'd just stepped out of a bandbox, and her temper was aroused. Especially when Napoleon seemed to think his arriving in time to effect a rescue and having grabbed the files back made everything alright.

Few realized she had a temper; she went to great extremes to keep it so under control for it to be almost unnoticeable. But from her mother's family a temper she most certainly did have. (April refused to accept it might be from her father's side, since it seemed to be aroused by injustice or protectiveness, not sheer belligerence and bloody-mindedness like his did.)

Still, there was little doubt of the existence of a temper once she made her very calm, very clear pronouncement to an apologetic, but not near sufficiently (to her mind, anyway) remorseful Napoleon Solo. In an ever-so-ladylike manner, she even offered him some sincere assistance.

"Darling, do you need a new watch? Yours seems to have seriously malfunctioned. I believe Biederman's is having a sale this week."

She reloaded her dart gun rather crisply as she continued. "Or perhaps your delay was for other reasons? I realize you have your own expert investigative methods, and far be it from me to suggest you deny yourself any incidental pleasure that might come your way while engaged in those. But should your pursuit of those pleasures end up getting my partner, or for that matter, YOUR partner serious injured, or heaven forbid, killed? That would be truly dreadful, don't you think?" She tilted her head to glance over at him, then down at Mark and Illya, then back to Napoleon.

"Of course, I do realize the burden of trying to keep yourself, ah, focused on the job at hand, just might be too much to ask of your self-restraint or your masculinity. If you need assistance with that, I know a mohel who owes me a rather significant favor; I'm sure he can help. Well, he used to be a mohel, dear man, until his eyesight got so poor, and until he developed those severe tremors in his hands. Still, I'm sure he'd be willing to come out of retirement at my request, just as I am certain that with his help, you'd not have NEARLY the difficulty in maintaining your focus that you appear to have now."

April turned away to get out her communicator and call in her report and notify Medical they would be receiving two rather battered agents shortly. 

Napoleon was still staring at her, but took note of the grim smile of amusement being shared by Mark Slate and Illya Kuryakin. He knew April well enough to know she was seriously annoyed with him, no matter that calm smile and placid expression, but he just didn't quite understand.

"A mohair? I don't get it," he whispered, as much to himself as to the two men propping themselves up on the wall.

"Not a 'mohair', Napoleon. I believe April was referring to a mohel. Someone who is trained in the ritual of brit milah - that is, he performs circumcisions. Yes, I am aware that you already ARE, but if his vision is truly that poor, he might not notice in time. But I'm sure he'd do the very best job he could, especially with owing April a 'significant favor'," Illya offered with a smirk, as he pulled himself to his feet, offering a hand to Mark in the doing.

Mark added, with an even wider smirk, "of course, there ARE those worrisome tremors in his hands to consider, along with his eyesight."

Napoleon's eyes widened and he looked over at April, at the calm, peaceful, PROMISING lady-like smile on her face, and he shuddered. 

Surprisingly, especially to Napoleon, that little smile seemed to resonate in his memory on more than one occasion, and if he didn't make a total one eighty, well, Illya noticed a significant downturn in the annoying (very well, sometimes infuriating) incidents. That those little non-followthroughs were accompanied by a slightly thoughtful blink of the eyes was something Illya was finding not only gratifying but also amusing, knowing the cause.

That April had seen fit to include Illya in her little lady-like lecture, along with Mark, had been unexpected to the Russian, but it would seem April was following right along with Mark Slate in deciding Illya was to be considered a friend, not just a fellow agent, with all the rights and privileges thereof. It was an odd concept, and one Illya wasn't entirely sure he approved of. However, it didn't seem he was being given a choice either. 

***  
It hadn't happened right away, but eventually an assignment went askew in a direction that made Napoleon remember April's comments all too well.

They'd met in the hallway on the way to Waverly's office. 

"Any idea what's going on?" Mark had asked.

"Not a clue," Napoleon said. "Just the usual from Lisa Rogers - 'He wants you in his office right away.'" 

He turned his attention to April, started to smile and remark on her appearance, but by then they were already there and the door was sliding open and Waverly was motioning them inside impatiently.

Waverly was his usual dour, impatient self. If they read his expression right, if he'd had ANYONE he could have assigned to this affair other than these four agents, he would have, in a heartbeat. April was beginning to wonder if the Old Man was subject to bilious attacks; his temperament seemed to point in that direction anymore. He was getting snappy with everyone, though perhaps with her partner more than anyone. Well, he'd never had all that much patience with Mark in the first place.

Those blue eyes flickered over her exceedingly mod outfit and momentarily closed as if in pain. She was a little hurt; she'd gone to such efforts, too. The design was mod, certainly; that was what she enjoyed wearing best, after all. But the cheery spring colors were quite in keeping with the season, pink and baby-chick yellow and mint green and the sweetest pale raspberry. Even Mark's sotto voce comment the first time he'd seen her wear it, "you look like a box of after dinner mints, luv; a bit too sweet for my tastes, makes my teeth ache," hadn't dulled her delight in the short skirt and dipped front top and dashing little multi-colored jacket, not to mention the matching heels. Oh, well.

"Six noted men, all gone off the rails in one manner or another. All in Paris. All after being seen to spend considerable time in the company of THIS woman," their commander in chief intoned, pushing a picture to the center of the circular table. 

Napoleon was the first one with his fingers on the picture, naturally. A beautiful woman, maybe early thirties, soft brown hair expertly coiffed, looked out at him with smiling allure. There was something compelling, even slightly familiar in her eyes. Her self-confidence was easy to read even in a photograph. He flipped the picture over, read what was on the back.

"Professor Arathusa Melodian. Professor of what?" he asked.

"A variety of things, it would appear, from her credentials - Literature, Art, and Chemistry, among others. A veritable prodigy. Academically, she is currently serving as a Professor of Literature at the Sorbonne, and she DOES teach classes there. Indeed is quite in demand, it would seem, although I have been unable to ascertain exactly what the appeal would be. Her literature course hardly seems to fit with the academic regimen for degrees awarded by the university. And our efforts to get an auditor into the class have proved fruitless; we're told she is adamantly against the idea and they tend to humor her. And the students are not eager to disclose any details, though the university itself was kind enough to provide a brief syllabus for the course."

He snorted in disdain. "If the catalogue is to be believed, she teaches a sixteen week course entitled 'De L'Enclos, Delorme, and De Sade - Literary Eccentrics or Societal Heroes?' 'Societal Heroes' indeed!!"

The four agents didn't dare risk looking at each other; one wrong twitch of the mouth and the snickering or outright laughs were bound to start at the outrage in the older man's voice.

Napoleon cleared his throat, "yes, well, aside from her non-conventional course selection, just what is the connection between Professor Melodian and our 'off the rails' VIP's?"

Waverly frowned ferociously. "That is what YOU are to discover, Mr. Solo. You and Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer. It is asking a little much to assume the good professor's, um, social activities are unrelated, after all. Six men she has been on intimate terms with over the past year; six men either dead by their own hand or by misadventure, except for the two currently occupying padded accommodations in a private hospital for the insane! Important men, gentlemen, Miss Dancer! Well, for the most part. One nuclear physicist, two biological researchers, the intended heir to the throne of a small but very wealthy and influential country in the Balkins, and an American industrialist with his fingers in more pies than a dozen bakeries are likely to produce!"

April noted, "that makes five. And the sixth?"

That got a frown, but this one more of puzzlement than irritation. 

"That one is not in keeping with the rest. Monsieur Victor Delacroix. Artist. Direct descendant of Ferdinand Victor Eugene Delacroix, leader of the French Romantic school of art. We have found no possible connection to the other men."

***  
Waverly shook his head and sighed as the doors closed. Today Miss Dancer had looked rather like one of those Easter baskets Miriam always made up for the children and now the grandchildren. He pulled his mind away from just how tempting those baskets had been, how his beloved wife had to keep scolding and slapping his fingers away when he'd try to steal just one of the Peeps, or maybe a raspberry cream miniature egg, or . . . 

He touched the intercom button. "Miss Rogers, I believe I could do with a cup of tea. And do we have any of those macaroons left; I seem to have developed a bit of a sweet tooth."

***  
In reading the file, in pulling in information from their various sources, it was obvious that Professor Arathusa Melodian was lovely, libidinous, and lethal. 

"Just your cup of tea, Napoleon," Mark quipped. "Not a French blonde like Angelique, but still, not bad."

No, Arathusa was anything but bad, if you meant her looks, her desirability. Of course, if you were talking about her predilection for causing mayhem and destruction, well, that was another matter. And when you delved deeply into her personal inclinations, well, 'bad' just didn't begin to cover the subject. 

Men left Arathusa's bed feeling like the king of the world, the Don Juan of all Don Juan's, the master of the universe. At least the first time. When they'd gotten only the first of those tiny scratches that left one of her more interesting drugs in their system. The more a man visited that silk and satin playground, the more options were open as to the reactions as she mixed and matched various potions at her leisure.

She found it all most interesting, delighted in keeping extensive notes. Her dear cousin, Angelique, had similar interests and they frequently shared stories and recipes. Well, they DID have the same grandmother, after all, one Claudette Aubuchon, their mothers being sisters, Gigi and Francine Aubuchon; it was only to be expected they would share the family interests and the family hobbies, as well as a sincere devotion for the beloved, even revered, Donatien Alphonse Francois, the illustrious Marquis de Sade. No, there was no certainty that he was one of their forebears, but that had been the much-cherished family rumor.

***  
Mark and Illya had tripped the snare the moment they entered the upper level of the stately mansion, just after they'd given Napoleon the all-clear. The gas in that billowing smoke had them on their knees, eyes weeping, lungs gasping for air. 

If they'd had enough breath left to curse, they would have; that poorly-timed last message had been the signal for Napoleon to go distract the beautiful professor. Since the plan was for Napoleon to keep her occupied for at least an hour, preferably more, at the small intimate gathering for forty or so that she was hosting in the pavilion on the far side of the vast estate gardens, obviously rescue wasn't coming from that direction, not anytime soon anyway. 

And April had already been ensconced at that social event, her assignment being to detail every man Arathusa so much as glanced at, and seeing what tidbits of gossip she could come up with along the way. She was not supposed to leave the event til the bitter end, and she was finding some of the company most bitter indeed, and the entire experience exceedingly distasteful. These people had the oddest concept of what constituted acceptable polite conversation! 

That last very serious discussion she'd been a party to, of the finer aspects and variations of flogging, including which instruments had the greater inflamatory results on both participants, had been a little much, in her estimation. She certainly hadn't been able to come up with any intelligent additions when her own views had been elicited, only smiled gracefully and said, "well, I suppose there's something to be said for BOTH methods, actually." 

Luckily that had been deemed an acceptable response, and the conversation continued easily, though drifting into areas she found even more disturbing. It was lucky her social training had included how to appear politely attentive while being emotionally detached, otherwise she would have found it heavy rowing indeed.

Actually, Napoleon hadn't been engaged with Arathusa for all that long, since she had excused herself not ten minutes into their converation. 

"Just a few details regarding the entertainment, my dear. I will return so quickly you will hardly know I was gone," she murmured with a coy flutter of her lashes. He made polite protestations that even one moment would be too long, and she'd smiled as if that was only her due. 

He'd glanced at his watch a time or two - five minutes, ten, then fifteen edging on twenty, and he caught April's eye across the room. They met, seemingly just an accident of the usual ebb and flow of movement within the space, but a soft inquiry told him his fellow agent hadn't seen Arathusa come back either. Ordering April to stay on the job, he took another look around and considered his options. He overheard just a snatch of conversation between two of the attendants, just a " . . . mansion for some relaxation of her own. Pity we have to stay here; I always like it when she decides one of us can give her a hand, so to speak." The low, if remarkably salacious, chuckles shared gave Napoleon a chill.

Getting a very bad feeling all of a sudden, he slipped out a gap in the shrubbery and made his way to the mansion. It took considerable time, what with the distance and the need to be unobserved by the many guards patrolling the area, but finally he was there. The small golf cart parked alongside made his grit his teeth. Arathusa used the contraption to whiz around here and there on the grounds, and he wondered if she'd used it to leave the pavilion and come back here. That meant she could have been here for quite some time. That didn't bode well for Illya and Mark.

Drawing his gun, he entered through the French doors in the library. It had taken some doing, but he eventually found the very elaborate salon on the top floor, and the very sadly mistreated agents bound to the odd contraptions within. 

There was no sign of Arathusa, but after that ball gag had been removed, Mark rasped out a slow, "she headed back to the party; said she'd let us 'recover our composure', but that she'd be back and we'd have another round of 'amusement'. 

Illya had a few choice words about all that. Even Napoleon wasn't sure what some of those words meant! Since it was all coached in Russian, Mark could only guess at the meaning, but from the expression on Illya's face, and knowing what they'd been subjected to, Mark could pretty well fill in the blanks. Probably pretty well matched what he wanted to say, in fact.

"What about April?" Mark asked, trying to work out the kinks in his twisted body.

"She's still at the party. I wonder if the professor has shown up there yet," Napoleon wondered. It would be a risk using the communicator, but that was something it would be quite useful to know. If she was, and stayed there for awhile, maybe they could locate the information they'd been sent to gather.

A discreet signal, nothing as discordant as the usual sound the communicators were keyed to send out, and April soon called back. It had taken her a few minutes to get clear of the overly-eager couple who'd seemed to find her so 'very, very interesting', and locate a spot private enough to respond.

"Yes, she got back, lovely and serene as always. Is everything alright on your end? You sound tense."

Napoleon looked at the two battered men searching the bookcases, the desk and anywhere else that looked promising, "ah, yes, well, there was obviously some difficulty, but we are all three on the job, searching the top floor of the mansion now. Give us a heads-up if the professor leaves, April. With that little cart of hers, she could be here before we make it out again."

She'd closed the cap on her communicator, thinking his voice had sounded quite odd, hesitant, for some reason. 

It was inconvenient, of course, that the bench in the shrubbery she had chosen for that little conversation was one that backed onto a guard position. Within moments the professor had word of what was going on and took action. 

Oh, Arathusa wasn't looking for a confrontation. She perhaps had the manpower to take down four UNCLE agents, though that wasn't a certainty. But there were the guests to consider, and an embarrassing, perhaps violent confrontation would do dreadful things to her social reputation. And there was Angelique to consider as well; that odd attachment her cousin seemed to have for the dark-haired agent might prove to be a source of discord if Arathusa was the cause for his death. Next time they had drinks together, they'd have to discuss that, get the matter clarified. It might save all kinds of issues in the future; family discord would greatly annoy their grandmother and that simply wasn't done.

Napoleon was just getting ready to notify April that they'd found what they were looking for, the records of each of the six men, how and why they'd died - nothing that UNCLE would normally get involved in, just general 'fun and games' for the woman, it would seem, the victims chosen strictly on whim. 

At the same time he'd activated his communicator, it sounded in his hand.

"Napoleon, the oddest thing. She just announced that, while the party is to continue, she has just received a call - a family emergency, and must leave. She's headed for the front, and there's a car there with a driver. Wait, she's just sped off, and it's NOT in the direction of the mansion."

Well, there were still all those guards to consider, and the three men hurried to get the records and get out of there. Napoleon had already ordered April to leave, quickly but discreetly; to meet them back at their rendezvous point.

He took another look at Mark, at Illya and remembered something very important.

"Uh, guys. Promise me you'll let April know this WASN'T my fault?"

Mark and Illya looked at each other, bloody from countless small cuts and lash marks, clothing torn, bruises aplenty shared between them, Napoleon standing there like he'd just stepped away from an exclusive social gathering, which in truth he had.

"Oh, I don't know. What do you think, Illya? I mean, I suppose it depends on how you look at things, really. Just what spin should we put on the story?" Mark offered slyly.

Illya frowned in consideration. "Perhaps that is not the appropriate question, Mark. Perhaps instead we should inquire just how much Napoleon is willing to offer in order for us to put, as you call it, 'a spin' on the event? Dinner at the Russian Tea Room? Or perhaps Venara's? Followed by drinks at his place, only the best, of course."

But, fair was fair, and it truly HADN'T been his fault, and they relented. Still, somehow the four of them ended up at Venara's anyway, and yes, there were drinks at his place. After all, it WAS a cause for celebration - mission accomplished.

***  
Now leaning back against the frame of that sagging daybed, sipping at the cool drink Maria had just brought her, waiting for Mark to call in, April thought back on that dinner, the stories and laughter exchanged, and could only hope this assignment would end up with the same celebratory dinner. Venara's was fast becoming their 'end of a mission' meeting place, for her and Mark, and increasingly for Napoleon and Illya as well.

That was hardly a sure thing, though. Mark still hadn't reported back in, and she hadn't heard from Illya or Napoleon since she and her partner had arrived in this small town where Madame ruled supreme from her chateau high in the cliffs. 

She was just getting ready to go searching when her communicator beeped, and she grabbed it from the covers beside her. She breathed a silent sigh of relief when Mark's cheerful voice came through loud and clear. 

"All done on my side, April-luv. It was Gervais, alright, and I spotted the go-between, snatched the goods from him. Think we'd better make for the airport though before anyone gets wise. Any word from our friends, and where on earth are you again, by the way?"

She'd given as much explanation as the moment could allow, and upon his assurances that, yes, he DID have their luggage, she told him where the posada was located. In less than no time, he was at the entrance, busy charming the sweet Maria and her grandmother while April quickly changed out of the borrowed clothes. They left, leaving behind fervent thanks and generous payment for the hospitality April had been given, and for Maria, a recurring dream of blue eyes that seemed to smile at her in the darkness. 

A quick inquiry from April while Mark raced the car toward their destination told them that their compatriots had been successful, and they were all to head back to New York.

Napoleon's voice had been exceedingly dry as he remarked, "and Jeff Carmody had better get his act together. For all his superior talk, that's the second traitor we've found in his operation. If I were Mr. Waverly, I'd be thinking about a complete personnel audit, or maybe a new head of operations there. How did it go on your end?"

Mark and April glanced at each other, thinking over the past few days. 

Mark took the communicator in one hand, other hand firmly on the wheel.

"Oh, all according to plan, Napoleon. Couldn't have been better. A bit of a dust up with the governor and his ladies, but that was just between them; didn't involve us, really. April met a few of the local Thrush operatives, can add their descriptions into the log when we get back; nobody particularly important, I'd say, though. And it was Victor Gervais, though from what April tells me, he and the Madame don't seem to be on the sweetest of terms."

"And you, Mark? Your part went well? Or did you let April handle all the interaction?" Napoleon asked. That summary had seemed awfully April-centric.

Mark thought back to the those three at the florist shop, where he HAD circled back once he was alone, and smiled. Amazingly clear, those snapshots; he'd wait and show them to April some time when she was a little down; should perk her right back up again.

He let his mind skim over the rough fistfight with the go-between, that worthy wielding a broken branch to good advantage, and the hopefully just cracked ribs he'd so far managed to conceal from April, though there was something about the way she was eyeing him, and he wondered if he'd been as successful there as he'd thought.

"Oh, I just played tag-along, Napoleon. Well, she needs the experience, you know."

"Um, yes. Well, we'll talk about all that when we get back and settled."

April chimed in, "Venara's, as usual? I heard a rumor they are starting a dessert cart, with a chocolate, raspberry and whipped creme torte as the speciality."

That got everyone's cheerful approval, and Mark handed the communicator back to his partner, giving his full attention to the road once again, coughing to hide the tiny moan the movement dragged out of him.

"Mark?"

"Yes, luv?"

"You're checking in to Medical the minute we get back. And, just for the record, the next time you try to hide the fact from me that you're hurt? I'm going to see that you REALLY have something to moan about," his partner said in a calm, offhand tone.

He grinned over at her. "I'll remember that, luv."

Yes, she meant it. His partner always meant what she said, threats included. Of course, she was always a lady about it. Always a lady.


End file.
